Devil's Trumpet
by Wondo
Summary: Peter and Neal investigate an interstate jewelry theft ring.
1. Chapter 1

Note: I've been away too long from writing White Collar stories.

This story is set mid S4 before the arrival of Sam.

Devil's Trumpet

Chapter 1

"That's a moonflower, Peter!" Neal Caffrey pointed at a large, luminous white trumpet flower.

To Neal's surprise, Special Agent Peter Burke frowned as if he didn't agree. Strolling along a diverse flower exhibition, the two men were enjoying a spirited pettifoggery, as they observed elaborate flower arrangements and ornamental plants.

"It's one of the most romantic garden plants you can grow. Moonflower… of the solanacae or nightshade family. These beautiful blossoms are native to Central and South America and usually open at night to beat out the day competition." Neal paused with a scholarly grin. "It's the daylight flowers that display vibrant colors attracting a variety of pollinators; they're beautiful to our eyes and they exhibit striking patterns in ultra-violet and infra-red ranges that we can't see. But nocturnal blooms… ah, they put out a delectable odor that's like a flaunting neon sign reading _smogasbord._ Bees and butterflies aren't interested but nocturnal moths are really aroused; they're attracted to the aroma."

The handsome con artist, dressed immaculately in light gray wool, circa 1960's elegant Sy Devore suit, powder-blue Armani dress shirt and matching striped cobalt tie, gestured with heightened excitement, pointing to the towering vines and white trumpet-shaped flowers blooming in the garden aisle. A sweet and heady lemony scent permeated the air. Although the hour was nearing half past eight o'clock, Neal looked as fresh and dapper as he had first appeared early that morning.

His companion, Peter Burke, was not so fortunate. Attired more sedately in last year's Brooks Brothers suit, the dark blue garment was limp and decidedly wrinkled, although fetchingly offset by a brightly striped shirt and Hugo silk red tie.

"Thank you, Jeff Corwin. It may surprise you but I do happen to know a bit about night bloomers and Datura moonflowers. Just because I don't voraciously read elite gardening magazine _s_ with apt delight, while sipping Italian Roast on my Manhattan terrace, doesn't mean my horticultural knowledge is limited to the… the …," he paused, apparently searching for the nomenclature of some garden periodical, "annual special addition of Better Homes and Garden."

"Yes, I understand. However, reading _**Ranger Rick**_ in the dental office or watching the Animal Planet doesn't quite cover the specificity of night bloomers, Peter. Nocturnal insects have an incredible sense of smell. They can detect the slightest aroma from miles away. A few night bloomers have strong stenches, like Florida's James' Waterlily _,_ but the Datura inoxia has a pleasant, sweetly nocturnal, intoxicating fragrance that some people have likened to—"

"In layman's terms, moths have big sniffers and moonflowers don't stink!" baited Burke, with a mischievous gleam in his eye. "I just happened to spend several summers working in a nursery during high school. It involved a great deal of hard, repetitive work … something you're unfamiliar with." He paused. "Naturally, you made no mention of the plant's dark side. All parts of this plant contain very high levels of poison with toxicity to people and animals. I'm sure you know that in some places, it's illegal to sell or cultivate Daktura plants; they're considered an invasive species in a few locations."

"Attending a horticultural exhibit at The New York Palace Hotel with a plebian law enforcement official somehow takes the thrill out of the evening," responded Neal, sighing heavily. "The fact these flowers glow with a noticeably outer worldly charm in the moonlight," he lifted his hands toward the sky, "doesn't seem to penetrate your officious and combative demeanor." Casting a questioning gaze upon both his handler and partner, he paused. "You didn't, per chance, have one of your very infrequent but painful disagreements with Elizabeth, did you?"

Peter wrinkled his brow, shook his head in a negative reply, fixing Neal Caffrey with his patterned menacing glare that usually stopped most felons in their tracks.

"Okay, then," said the younger man, "admit it. You must have received your annual property tax notification. Owing money is another telltale trigger for Burke grumpiness."

"Stop," answered Peter, menacingly waving one hand within inches of Neal's aesthetically handsome nose. "I did _not_ have a disagreement with El and I'm not grumpy." The agent sat down suddenly on one of the marble benches in the courtyard garden exhibit, followed hesitantly, a few moments later by his partner.

Pulling out his notebook and scanning his scribbles, Peter slouched with fatigue.

"Neal, it's late. We've been working fourteen hour days and I want to go home. After a long day in the office, chasing down particulars on one of our longstanding, open and infuriating mortgage cases, we're only now finding time to investigate the jewelry theft ring. I'm not in the mood to be exuberantly tiptoeing through the tulips with you. By the way, where'd you get all your Tiny Tim energy from?"

The look Neal turned on him was feigned disbelief. "We're sitting in the Madison Avenue Courtyard, of the historic Villard Mansion, historic old carriage entrance, adjacent to the hotel's grand lobby, and all you can do is complain about fatigue!"

Hey, look here," Peter said, ignoring his partner's banter and pointing to his pad, alerting Neal to just how tired he was. "We're supposed to meet one of the exhibit's representatives named Brooke Sunterland. She personally requested someone from our office drop by, accusing the NYPD of investigative incompetence."

"Agent Burke!" a shout resonated from a short distance away. The two men glanced up, past a large placard offering free horticultural seminars, to see a short, fiftyish, rotund woman, wearing a brightly colored and garish horticultural badge strode toward them.

"I'm betting that's Brooke," said Peter quietly, as the two men rose to their feet.

"Is that a neon orange sunflower badge, surrounded by glowing purple daisies and stars?" replied Neal, in a pained whisper.

"I'm not sure. The outer worldly shine is blinding my vision."

"You must be Agent Burke," Ms. Sunterland exclaimed loudly. "Your office told me you were coming by." She bared her teeth in a sort of bulldog grin and vigorously pumped both men's hands with a force that caused a half smile from Peter and quiet grunt from Neal, as he hastily took one step behind his cohort.

Peter glanced back at Neal before meeting the representative's gaze. "Yes Ma'am. I'm Special Agent Peter Burke and this is my consultant, Neal Caffrey. We're here to talk to you about the Bateman Robbery on May 22nd. It seems your horticultural event had space next to the jewelry exhibit last Sunday." He paused, intent on Brooke's reaction to his next question. "Isn't it a bit odd that your flower festival was aesthetically merged with an exhibit of fine gems?"

"Yes, Agent Burke," she replied. "Some board member's brilliant idea of attracting a larger crowd to our quarterly garden display. It's the first time we offered some of our rental space in the lobby to gemstone distributers. We were supposed to reap the rewards of greater public exposure for horticultural events." Brooke paused, fixing a piercing gaze at Peter. "Our committee will most certainly be changing this policy in the future. We didn't realize the jewels would draw the baser element of criminal offenders. High-end gardening usually caters to the more genteel and intellectual population."

"As Agent Burke's consultant, I most certainly agree with you, Ms. Sunterland," Neal was quick to interject. "One of my friends, Mr. Haversham and I, part of the horticultural cognoscenti of Manhattan, enjoy the refined atmosphere of home cultivation."

Studiously avoiding Peter's dismissive reaction, Neal reached over, gently placing his hand on the administrator's right arm. "We're particularly enthralled with datura inoixia. In fact, I was just pointing out to Peter, the fascinating attributes of moonflowers. Your organization's display is particularly impressive. Perfect for a night garden."

Brooke, caught in the process of bending down to stroke one of the large white blossoms, paused halfway, beaming with delight. "Oh thank you, Mr. Caffrey," she said standing up, casting her attention entirely on Neal. "You have no idea how pleasant that is to hear. We're certainly a group of dedicated professionals striving to enhance New York's beautification of home and garden, hoping to see the expansion of greening efforts. I'm sure you're aware of how detrimental this recent dry spell has been to gardening." Neal nodded solemnly as Brooke smiled flirtatiously at him. "You must be a great asset, Mr. Caffrey, to the FBI agency."

As Peter sighed in dismay, Neal smiled modestly, casting an angelic look upon the agent.

"You've no idea," Peter muttered. "Ms. Sunterland, I know you're aware that shortly after the festival closed last Sunday, one of the gem owners, David Bateman, was assaulted and robbed of his merchandise as he returned to his vehicle. NYPD informed our office you happened to observe some suspicious activity that evening."

"I certainly did. Although Sunday is often a very busy day for us and last weekend was no exception, I assure you, I happened to notice three men at the jewelry display who stood out from the rest of the spectators. This all happened during my coffee break in the lobby."

"Go on, please," said Peter when Brooke paused her speech, glancing over at Neal, as if for validation and approval from a fellow gardening enthusiast. Neal nodded, smiling with encouragement.

"My eye caught three Hispanic men, in their thirties or forties, milling around just outside the exhibit. I noticed them because they had briefly stopped off at our exhibit earlier in the day." She paused again, seeming to gather herself before she continuted. "I'm very observant, Agent Burke. They seemed very uneasy and indifferent to our botanical displays. I wondered to myself why they strolled through the aisles but didn't stop to inspect _any_ of our beautiful specimens. Certainly suspicious, I'd say. Wouldn't you agree, gentlemen?" she nodded, certain of an affirmative response.

"Have you ever seen them at previous flower shows?" asked Neal.

"Not at all! These men looked very out of place. I'm sure they were using our exhibit to plan their nefarious deed. And poor Mr. Bateman; he's such a fine man. They must have followed him and stole all his gems. The police told me he was threatened at knife-point! I hope you catch these criminals. Our entire garden club won't feel safe until you do."

"I don't believe these men are interested in moonflowers, Ms. Sunterland. Their interest lies primarily in jewelry and gem theft," Peter attempted to reassure her, failing to hide a hint of his impatience. "We'll do all we can to apprehend the thieves."

After asking a few more questions, Neal and Peter took their leave, meandering through the short aisles with myriad displays of such things as moon flowers, lavish container gardens, and assorted asian lilies. The courtyard floor they walked on was designed with flooring motifs from 15th-centry Italian cathedrals. The modern fifty-five story hotel tower, with its design of dark bronze reflective glass and anodized aluminum, loomed above them.

"Brooke Sunterland seemed quite certain she spotted our thieves," said Neal.

"Certainty doesn't always equal accuracy," replied Peter. "Although this time I believe our witness is correct. This has all the earmarks of the Virginia theft ring. Looks like they've moved north."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

A few days later in the Manhattan White Collar office, Peter assembled a small team of agents in the briefing room. Looking around the room, he couldn't help feeling proud and a bit smug about the capabilities of his staff. His division, continually recognized for their outstanding work and winning track record of high-profile cases, was in his opinion, second to none among FBI field offices. The majority of his agents were seasoned, dedicated professionals with a few promising probie agents tossed in the mix.

"Okay. Let's cover the facts," he said. "Jones?"

Peter stepped aside. The lights dimmed as Agent Clinton Jones stood on his feet, moving to the front of the room, pointing to the image of five Hispanic men appearing onto the large projection screen surface.

"These men are the prime suspects in the Martinez Jewelry Theft Ring investigation. ATF agents in Richmond have been tracking these men across state lines for months. Run by Cleto, aka "Aleto" Martinez, he and his gang of thugs are suspected in the theft of approximately $4.3 million in jewelry. Their victims are primarily prosperous traveling jewelry salesmen who ply their trade up and down the eastern seaboard."

Neal, sitting near the front of the room, listened thoughtfully, interjecting with a brief sentence."They're also behind a rather daring theft in San Diego."

Jones swallowed down his quick prickle of annoyance at Neal's certainty, inclined to believe Peter's CI facts were correct. Leave it to Caffrey to point out some new piece of data, previously unknown, to the other people at the table.

"You're implicating them for an additional robbery, Neal? On the west coast?" Peter challenged, his eyes lighting with interest. He glanced at his partner as his lips pursed, considering the new information.

"Yes. I discovered the same M.O. in some obscure file I was looking at yesterday. The ones on unsolved jewel thefts," Neal remarked confidently. "A group of men conducted surveillance of a jewelry store and then robbed the sales courier. The courier was beaten severely, but his description of the assailants' matches our culprits, and several of Martinez' gang have relatives in that area of California."

Neal sat back, slouching slightly in his seat, lifting his shoulders and hands, peering at Clinton and providing a conciliatory shrugging gesture.

Jones took a deep breath, continuing his recitation. "These men are considered armed and dangerous, extremely mobile and enjoy using violence to accomplish their objective. It's alleged the gang has ties to several South American crime groups who've extended their operation beyond their own national borders. These groups, known for working in teams, steal gems, jewelry and precious metals from their victims."

"And now Martinez is here, busy working the streets of New York City," added Diana Berrigan.

"You got it," Jones answered. "We've noted several high profile robberies where a group of men followed the jewelry salesmen back to their cars or homes, smashing in windows for entrance and robbing victims at knife or gun-point. They always slit the tires, cut phone lines or steal cell phones to ensure a successful getaway. They're smart, do their homework and have a number of accomplices."

"Thanks, Jones." Peter placed his hands on the table, leaning forward slightly on the balls of his feet. "This has become a high priority for our office. We need to apprehend these men as quickly as possible. Some of you I'm assigning strictly to the task of street investigation. Go talk to your inside sources, pound the pavement for information, revisit the crime scenes. I want the rest of you to continue to research the files Richmond sent us. The mayor is breathing down the neck of our Assistant Director. He in turn wants results."

Peter paused for effect. "Need I say more?"

Only Neal held up his hand and nodded.

"Can it, Caffrey. We'll talk after the meeting. Okay, that's it people."

The group slowly filed out; Diana in the lead. Jones was the last one out the door, casting a somewhat disparaging backward glance at Neal. The conman smiled apologetically, folding his arms in front of his chest. He knew he was in for some good natured harassment later in the day. Clinton would be thinking up a tasty morsel of payback for the upstaging of his presentation in front of the boss.

Peter grinned, placing his hands in his pockets.

"What?" asked Neal.

"You know, you could've mentioned the California tip to Jones _before_ the meeting."

"And spoil his reaction, Peter? It keeps him on his toes; he loves it."

"Hmm … we'll see." Peter frowned, looking over to the screen before continuing the conversation. "These men do their homework. According to the files, they've been in operation for over three years. ATF believes they've using New York fences. Do you think Mozzie would have heard any word on the street?"

Neal shrugged.

"Someone in this city is the go between," Peter continued, "re-selling the merchandise and coordinating the resale."

"You also have to consider the fact that whoever's the dealer or dealers may be melting down the gold and selling the jewels loose. Whatever way they've doing business, I assume there's an international buyer in their pocket as well …," Neal let his voice trail off.

"I want this bust, Neal. Martinez has been crossing state and national boundaries, thumbing his nose at the Feds. He and his cohorts aren't your highbrow white collar criminal aristocrat!"

Peter thought he caught a glimmer of pride in Neal's face and raised his eyebrows, pausing to give the conman a meaningful glance.

"What?" questioned Neal, once again.

Peter continued, ignoring the query. "As far as we know there's been no murder, as of yet, but the violence is escalating. He's got this inner circle of people we need to identify and shake down; the ones that have their hands dirty with theft, possession of stolen property and assault. Hell, I'm sure Martinez has a number of people just working on targeting prospective robbery victims."

"If we can zero in on one of them, maybe it will rattle some cages," said Neal. "I'll ask Mozzie to snoop around and see if he can pick up some names. His Spanish is pretty good too."

"Of course. Don't tell me… Rosetta Stone."

"Nope. Independent study involving online courses, pretty senoritas, and the noteworthy Mexican telenovelas."

"Mozzie watches Spanish soap operas?" Peter said, his tone of voice expressing some doubt.

"He thrives on the working-class melodrama, crime dramas and mystery thrillers."

"Crime dramas," the agent scoffed. "He uses soap operas to practice his Spanish?"

"Mozzie will tell you all you want-or don't want to know-about _La Casa de al Lado._ He's an avid fan of Telemundo. According to him, each character has a secret that puts you in doubt who is lying and who's telling the truth, who's innocent and who's a villain, who you can trust or mistrust."

Peter eyes narrowed. "Just up his alley. La Casa de al Lado…The House Next Door. Let me guess. Layers of intrigue with an evil law enforcement agent using his power to thwart the efforts of good-looking bad boy and quirky sidekick?"

"You'll have to ask Moz. But maybe that's why it was nominated as novella of the year," replied Neal, smiling with amusement. "I'm sure he'd be happy to discuss the intricacies of the show."

"Just ask him to listen for any talk on the street. And Neal …"

Neal lifted his head. "Yeah?"

"Tell him to be careful. These men are armed and dangerous. I have better things to do than go pull Mozzie's chestnuts out of the fire."

"Okay, Peter. I'll be sure to tell him you're concerned for his safety."

Peter answer was a withering look, brushing past Neal as he walked out of the conference room. Neal sensed his friend rolling his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

A visit to David Bateman's Brooklyn apartment house was next on Peter Burke's agenda. Walking up the short flight of stairs in front of the Cobble Hill Historic District brownstone, Neal paused to admire the neighborhood.

"Nice area. Nineteen century homes, charming streets, close to shops and Manhattan."

"Don't tell me you're in the real estate business now."

"No, Peter. But Mozzie's a broker—"

"Of course."

Neal glanced down the step at his partner. "He's scouted out this area many times. As you well know, it's one stop closer to Manhattan than Brooklyn Heights, rental can be several hundred dollars cheaper per month and it's trendy. Desirable real estate. Either this guy makes a good living, has a rich friend or is using this place for an investment."

"Wait! Back up," Peter exclaimed, casting a shocked look at Neal. "Mozzie scouts out Brooklyn real estate? Don't you mean he cases Brooklyn real estate?"

Neal didn't have to tell him a thing, he knew, but if he didn't, the agent might decide to check into his small friend's licensing history. Definitely not a good thing.

"Now I'm really worried," Peter continued. "How often does he visit my neighborhood?"

"Peter! I said he looks for desirable real estate. Selling price starting over two million. As charming as your quaint little home on DeKalb Avenue is, I don't believe his brokering pursuits lie anywhere in your backyard."

Peter frowned thoughtfully. "So you say."

Turning back, hiding his grin, Neal eyed the heavy lion head brass knocker on Bateman's door. Exquisitely hand crafted, it matched the patina of the equally unique and polished brass mail slot. The entire front façade of the brownstone had been authentically and expertly restored, maintaining visual unity with the neighborhood homes up and down the attractive tree-lined street.

Brushing past him, Peter lifted the knocker pull handle, letting it resound repeatedly against the metal plate. "Ornate," was Peter's only comment.

Standing on the front platform, Peter rubbed his fingertips against his forehead, shifting impatiently back and forth on the balls of his feet. Crossing his arms over his chest, glancing at pedestrians on the street, he began exhaling noisily through his nostrils.

"You did say he was expecting us?" asked Neal.

"Yeah. I had Diana call ahead to arrange the visit. This is our first chance to talk to this guy. The NYPD interview was conducted at the hospital. Seems our Mr. Bateman is still recovering from his ordeal. Some facial bruising and a mild dislocated shoulder. When Diana asked him to drop by the office for an interview, he refused, cited doctor's orders to remain at home and rest. He said the trip into Manhattan would be out of the question, at this time."

"Interesting," said Neal. "You'd think he'd be anxious to move the investigation forward."

"Bateman's known for his disagreeable personality. Very successful jewelry salesman, holds the coveted position as buyer and seller for Neiman Marcus, Saks and numerous privately-owned jewelry shops on 5th Ave. Tiffany & Company described him as one of their favorite salesmen. Colleagues' scuttlebutt implies Bateman's rise to the top was due to ambition, drive and cutthroat methodology. He's obviously skilled in observation; I want his first-hand description of the assault."

Neal, taking over the admittance initiative, began to knock repeatedly on the door.

"That is … if he ever opens his damn door," grumbled Peter, a dangerous glint in his eye. Letting out a loud exclamation, in the nature of a "harrumph", he resisted the urge to land a swift hard kick to the beautifully polished mahogany obstacle in front of them.

Grinning at his friend's impatience, Neal slowly eased his body to the right side of the entrance, extending his arm in a theatrical gesture. "Did you bring the battering ram?" he asked in mock seriousness.

Peter's frown deepened. On the verge of pulling his cell phone out of an inner suit coat pocket, the door opened suddenly inward.

 _Just in time_ , thought Neal. From the look on Peter's face, he figured his colleague had been seconds away from ordering up the medieval siege engine.

The entryway revealed a tall, slim, elderly woman wearing stereotypical gray and white maid attire. Her gray dress with white collar, pocket and apron seemed more in line with a first-class Manhattan hotel than an elite residence of Cobble Hill.

"Yes, gentlemen?" she inquired, a scowl appearing on her lined face.

"FBI," replied Peter, displaying his badge, "we here to see Mr. Bateman, please."

"Of course," she slowly replied, scanning Peter's ID and badge, finishing up a quick one-two observation of his entire wardrobe, as if confirming within her own mind that he passed her scrutiny of what a federal law officer image should be.

"Please step inside and proceed to the parlor. I'll inform Mr. Bateman you're here."

The agent and his CI stepped into a welcoming yellow foyer, lined with a stunning white floor-to-ceiling built-in wall unit display. The room opened up to an long, white parlor with original wide plank hardwood floorboards, highlighted by an impressive fireplace and ended, with a walk-out balcony.

The housekeeper swept past the two men, proceeding to climb an elegant curved staircase. Before she reached the upper level, a short, balding man in his mid-forties, appeared at the landing.

"Mr. Bateman, the FBI is here to see you."

"Yes, thank you, Andrea," Bateman answered with a smile, dismissing his employee with a slight nod of the head.

Bateman slowly descended the stairs, wearing a deluxe sling prominently supporting his right arm and two shoulder straps with chest wrap of soft foam material securely immobilizing the shoulder joint. As he walked toward Peter and Neal, both men spotted a conspicuous black eye.

"Hello gentlemen," greeted Bateman.

"Mr. Bateman, I'm Agent Burke and this is my consultant, Neal Caffrey. We're here to talk to you about the jewelry robbery."

Bateman nodded, gesturing with his uninjured arm for the men to take a seat on the divan in front of the fireplace. Slowly seating himself upon an upholstered arm chair, he grimaced with discomfort.

"I'm not well, Agent Burke. I don't know why this interview couldn't have been delayed. I already gave the police my story. Didn't you read it? I don't have anything more to add." Bateman stared into space, his body language decidedly hostile.

Sharing a glance with Peter, Neal took up the challenge. "This is a lovely home, Mr. Bateman. Obviously a great deal of historical research went into this costly restoration. I'm not surprised you enjoy recuperating in this home."

Sitting up, David Bateman's somber countenance instantly vanished. "Ah … the charm of Cobble Hill; no modern or contemporary homes here. Are you interested in nineteen century architecture, Mr. Caffrey?"

Neal nodded.

"It's one of my passions, aside from jewelry sales and appraisal, of course." Bateman paused, jutting out his chest. "Much of this home's historic stonework has been preserved and I restored the façade and color scheme according to accurate documentation."

"Such an eye for detail is quite a gift," cut in Peter. He swept his arms outward, indicating the room they were seated in. "This home is evident of that".

Peter moved in with additional flattery, leaning forward with rapt attention. "Observation is a highly important skill, developed and honed through training, reasoning and memory. I understand, a jewelry salesman's success depends upon accurate observation. Isn't it true that a diamond's value is its rarity and no two diamonds are alike?"

Bateman nodded.

"That rarity is determined by a diamond's special characteristics during its appraisal? As such, you must have remarkable observational skills _._ My colleague and I are anxious to hear your first hand recollection of the robbery."

"Scoundrels," exclaimed Bateman. "Common thugs and cowards. They were waiting for me at my car. Four Spanish speaking men, in their thirties to forties. I picked out a couple of faces from the police files. One of the men was obviously the ringleader. Heavy set with a scar on his left wrist. When I wouldn't give up the sack of gems, he motioned for the others to attack me. Almost ripped my arm out, viciously grabbing the case from me!"

"Had you seen any of these men prior to the assault?" asked Neal.

"I didn't mention it at the hospital but now that I've had some additional time to mull over the details. Well, yes. I might have seen one of them."

"When?" asked Burke.

I often stop by Tanger's Jewelry Store on Seventh Avenue. The owner's an acquaintance of mine. He shows me his new stock, and I give him a quick appraisal. About a month ago, I dropped by and noticed a man hanging around my car when I was ready to leave. Gave him the quick once-over since he seemed to be loitering. In my business you can't be too careful."

Peter was curious. "What makes you think he might have been one of your assailants? Was there an identifying detail?"

"Short," replied Bateman. "He was unusually short. And he stared at you with an annoying gaze."

Peter and Neal asked a few additional questions and took their leave. Heading over toward the agent's car, Neal reached out, pulling Peter to a stop.

"You're wrong you know."

"About what?" asked Peter softly. Innocence radiated from his demeanor.

"Mozzie is not into jewelry theft - at least at the moment. And he's not Hispanic or violent."

"I must admit the description momentarily caught my attention," replied Peter with a grin. "However, I think he's off the table on this one."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: This is my favorite chapter. I actually went to the Lowell for high tea.

Chapter 4

Late afternoon the following day, while seated in his office meticulously putting together the pieces of the puzzle his team had begun to gather, the agent's phone rang. Neal looked up at him from across the desk. Checking the display screen, Peter noted the call was from Elizabeth.

"Hi, hon. You should probably come home for a quick visit," his wife said. "Bring Neal with you."

"I'm pretty busy right now, El. We're in the middle of correlating reams of information. As much as we'd love to leave this mess, see you and catch some lunch—"

"The Martinez case?"

"Yup. For the last several hours." Neal, overhearing Peter's side of the conversation ambled over to him, desperately mouthing the word, _please._ Peter turned his back on his CI. "You shouldn't have offered the invitation. Neal, with puppy dog eyes, is clued to my side… now he's tugging at my arm."

Peter shook him off.

"Well this time he's right, Peter. I'm here enjoying a very pleasant tea with Mozzie and he insists you come home. He wants you to hear the information he's uncovered." She paused. "And no, he won't come to the office. Besides sweetie, you've been running yourself ragged again. A nice break will do both you boys some good. It's 3PM," her voice softened, "and I'm sure you haven't stopped for lunch."

It took only a moment for Peter to mull over his wife's invitation as he watched Neal go through a series of unspoken gestures, displaying a pantomime of prayer, followed by pantomime starvation; theatrics that would have equaled the genius of Marcel Marceau. Tempted to delay his acquiescence, if just to enjoy more of Neal's stagecraft, Peter hesitated a few additional seconds. He rarely refused his wife's infrequent requests and, if truth be known, Mozzie had hooked him with mysterious bait.

"Of course, hon. You're right. Neal and I will be heading your way shortly."

Peter heard El chuckle as she heard his final words directed at his partner. "Neal! Get off your knees; I said yes."

Since traffic was light, the two men entered the Burkes' home within the hour. Neal's small friend, attired in regal if bizarre splendor, smiled, raising his hand as a token of greeting. Seated at the dining room table, dressed in red velvet smoking jacket, white shirt and matching bowtie, Mozzie's highbrow appearance didn't extend to his lower quadrant. Rugged tan cargo pants and light sneakers peaked out under the dainty Irish tablecloth.

 _That's a strange outfit for even Mozzie_ , thought Peter, wondering as he often did, why his wife enjoyed the eccentric grifter's company.

Glimpsing the table's display, Peter stopped suddenly, halfway into the room to gawk. Spread with a beautiful vintage china teapot with different patterned and colorful floral teacups, an assortment of lit candles, three tiered trays, cake stands, tea sandwiches, white napkins, Irish butter and decadent pastries that might put a queen's high tea to shame, the dining table's surface was barely visible. Lovely soft music, Glen Miller's Moonlight Serenade, played quietly in the background. Peter was flummoxed and speechless. He knew El and Mozzie shared occasional tea and luncheon dates but he never thought the scale would be this grand.

 _Wait a minute_. He couldn't remember his wife offering to put this kind of spread out for _him_. Of course, if he was honest, he had no desire to partake of a high tea, would feel awkward even attending one, but it was the principle of the thing. Right…right?

"Are those smoked salmon and lobster salad sandwiches?" asked Neal, grinning with obvious delight. "From the Pembroke Room at the Lowell?"

"It certainly is, _mon ami_ , and there's your favorite cauliflower tart with walnut crust and ginger scones with Devonshire cream," intoned Moz. "Sit down and enjoy this sumptuous repast." He directed his next question to his lovely companion. "We won't mind, will we, Elizabeth?"

El shrugged with an apologetic smile at her husband and waved both men over to the table. "No, of course not," she replied.

"I'm sure she won't," muttered Peter, as he came around the table, taking a seat next to Elizabeth and fixing the little interloper with an evil stare.

"Be careful, Suit. Don't knock over any of the crystal," Mozzie instructed. "Your wife provided some of the lovely tea accoutrements, but the rest must be returned in tip-top shape. It's not your usual lunch at the hot dog cart."

Elizabeth quickly and firmed grabbed her husband's right arm as he raised it heavenward in an alarming manner. She knew Peter's signs of frustration and impending eruption. Pouring him some tea and placing the delicate china cup gently in his hand, she cast a pleading look for help from Neal as she attempted to defuse Peter's temper.

"Mozzie knows I love attending the occasional high tea. So he contacted a few of his friends in the hotel business and _voila_ a special treat, right here in our own home." The petite brunette fixed her eyes on Peter's face, smiling winningly. "Wasn't that sweet?"

Peter nodded, a small smile not reaching his eyes as he scanned the contents of the table.

Neal held up his tea cup in salute. "To this wonderful meal and delightful company. What a surprise to take part in a refined custom of afternoon tea. A respite from the hectic pace of today's busy world."

Mozzie smiled in agreement and took a drink. "The tea is outsourced, of course, but it's of most importance that teas are brewed using real loose leaves, not tea bags. Can you imagine the disappointment of seeing a couple of limp tea bags hanging out of a teapot?"

"That would be tragic," agreed Peter. "It would certainly remove some of the enjoyment of lounging around someone else's home for hours on end." He reached for a ginger scone, clotted cream and five small sandwiches, filling his small plate to overflowing.

"Mozzie and I were just discussing the origin of the afternoon tea," said El.

"Anna, the Seventh Duchess of Bedford," answered Mozzie and Neal, seemingly by rote.

Peter looked up from his meal, his glance lingering for a moment on both men.

"Yes," the agent broke in. "It was a custom during the late 1700's to eat a huge breakfast and small lunch with a very substantial dinner late in the evening. I'm sure the Duchess began to ask for tea and cakes to tide her over." He popped a dainty lobster sandwich in his mouth before he finished the story. "Inviting her friends to share the ritual, the event became a fashionable−"

"And treasured custom," finished Elizabeth, providing a warm hug to her erudite husband. "Mozzie, please pass Neal the smoked salmon and tell Peter the news you have for him."

"Of course, Mrs. Suit." Mozzie passed Neal several plates of delectable goodies including a collection of artfully arranged sweets. "Here, Neal. Don't pass up the fresh berry tart." Mozzie hesitated, glancing over at the Fed.

Peter calmly and deliberately reached for his tea, took a few sips and fixed a penetrating gaze at the little guy. "You have information for me?" he asked. Peter cleared his throat and waited.

"Neal told me you wanted to know any street scuttlebutt about the Martinez Ring. And he asked me to check on any known associates of theirs having a distinctive scar on the arm."

"Well … what have you got?"

"Let's start with 'thank you, Mozzie' for spending time doing research and risking life and limb to provide needed information that could not be gathered through official channels." Sitting up straight, Mozzie peered owlishly over his glasses at Peter and crossed his arms.

"My thanks will be heartfelt and sufficient in nature, once I hear the particulars," pledged the agent.

"Humph," uttered Mozzie, sniffing the air with undisguised skepticism. "I suppose I'll proceed."

"Moz," prompted Neal.

"Martinez and his coterie have made a name for themselves, in several states, with big money jewel thefts. They love smash and grab robberies and target traveling salesmen. Your ordinary New York crook is staying clear of them. The gang is bad news, tied up with South American theft groups. The jewelry industry is getting really riled. Some of the bigwigs are even talking about hiring their own 'protection', maybe tying into local Mafioso."

Mozzie leaned forward with his arms on the table. "In the past, they used New York strictly as a fencing city but now they're playing in our ballpark. Why they've changed location and how long they're planning to be here no one seems to know."

Peter sat back disappointed. "I know most of that. Can you give me a name of one of their fences?"

"Even better, Suit" replied Mozzie. "An associate, who will remain nameless, told me the identity of a jewel thief with scarred wrist. Raul Diaz−"

"Martinez' second in command," announced Neal.

"That's a confirmation we needed," replied Peter.

"Hold on," said Neal's friend. "It gets better. A nameless fence is poised to convert a nice wad of jewels into instant cash. He's waiting to hear from one Manual Perez, supposedly some hanger-on of the theft ring. Manuel's been spotted hanging out around East 63rd Street. I did some checking and found out a couple of jewelry salesmen will be in town on Thursday, staying at The Lowell."

"East 63rd Street," said Peter's consultant. "Prestigious address, deluxe rooms and absolutely fabulous penthouse suite!"

Peter threw him _the_ _look_.

"At least that's what I've heard," Neal added.

"And don't forget … a delightful high tea," said Mozzie.

"You stopped by the tea room during your reconnaissance," stated Peter, matter-of-factly, giving a cat-like smile. When the conman refused to answer, the agent stood up, moving into Mozzie's personal space. He bent down, inches from face to face contact, making the smaller man lean back in alarm.

"Thank you, Mozzie, for spending time doing research and risking life and limb to provide needed information that could not be gathered through official channels." Peter paused. "You did good."

Elizabeth and Neal smiled. Mozzie remained, surprisingly, speechless before he stammered, "I only did it for Neal."

Nodding, Peter quickly straightened his lean body into an upright manner. "Let's go, Neal. We've got a lot of work to do before Thursday." As he headed for the door, the agent pulled his wife out of earshot range and whispered, "This was a delightful meal, hon. But keep an eye on our silver− and make sure our guest removes any ill-gotten items out of the house."

Mozzie, taking advantage of Peter's momentary inattention, took the opportunity to mention his own misgivings to Neal. "Keep your eye on Duddley Do-Right, over there. I don't want any mention of my name in his reports or verbal diatribes."

"Okay, Moz. I've got your back. I won't let him tell Inspector Fenwick, Nell or his horse."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The next two days, the White Collar Unit spent the majority of their time placing a tail on Manuel Perez, checking into the background of three arriving representatives in the jewelry industry, and doing even more research on the Martinez gang. Two of the men staying at the Lowell, were discounted as inconsequential; traditional mid-range retailers from the Midwest. The third man, however, was not.

Jeffrey Carboni, a recognizable name from South Carolina's high-end carriage trade, fit the profile of a man the theft ring would target. The suave businessman, well-known within his community for offering the finest quality merchandise and service, tended to hand-pick every diamond and piece of jewelry in his showroom. Considered one of the most intelligent diamond specialists in the south, he was in town to display a few captivating new gems. The man was being honored, later in the week, with a customer service award from wealthy Manhattan patrons.

The jeweler, an affable high flyer, tended to offer pricing amenities not ordinarily provided to the elite. Handsome, well educated, debonair, articulate and soft-spoken were the qualities his clientele were apt to pin on him. Peter, with wry amusement, privately indulged himself with the notion Carboni was a Neal Caffrey-clone, minus the criminal background. He was looking forward to personally meeting the man.

Approaching the Lowell on East 63rd Street, Burke and Caffrey were greeted by the uniformed doorman. He quickly sprang into action, welcoming them into the elegant European-styled hotel lobby. Built in 1926, designed by architect Henry S. Churchill, with an art deco façade utilizing brick and glazed pink terra cotta, the Lowell offered 47 deluxe suites with features such as private terraces and wood burning fireplaces.

Bypassing the custom-designed front desk, surrounded by antique furniture and windows laded with imported gold-colored fabric, Neal stopped momentarily before entering the ornate elevator.

"You know, Peter," he said, "I really should consider a career in the gem trade."

"Why's that, Neal? Do you really think you can restrict yourself to expensive baubles when the world of paintings, sculpture and priceless manuscripts beckons?"

Neal raised his eyebrows. "The jewelry profession offers travel, lucrative sales, exquisite gems, beautiful women and much more. It'd be easy to rise to the top of the industry, become an authority in the vocation and indulge in a passion for gems and precious metals."

"It's not the passion I'd be worried about, Neal," Peter scoffed. "It's the minor little notion of ethical standards and code of conduct that fall into question."

Entering the elevator, Neal held open the door, pushing the button for the tenth floor. As Peter entered and the door closed, the younger man leaned casually against the back wall. He gave his handler a pained look of disapproval.

"You underestimate my ability to go straight."

"Not your ability; your desire."

Neal lips tightened. He closed his eyes momentarily, hiding all but the barest hint of offense. His body language didn't escape Peter's notice, who was surprised his own banter missed the mark.

 _Was Neal searching for some affirmation from him_?

Affirmation his CI was ready to be taken off monitoring anklet and let loose in the public arena? Or was Neal's reaction calculated for advantage somehow? Peter reasoned it might be a bit of both.

The agent inwardly winced. He sometimes failed to provide Neal with enough verbal assurance of his worth and capabilities. But the man held such an infuriating high opinion of himself. And to be honest, Peter just couldn't acknowledge how crucial it was to him, personally, that his partner remain on the right side of the law. Staking his career and friendship on that very point made the subject an emotional minefield for him.

Peter remained silent, reaching out and gently squeezing Neal's shoulder as they stepped out of the elevator. The conman hesitated a few seconds, his body relaxing minutely, before he pasted a big smile on his face and added a jaunty bounce to his step as they strode rapidly down the hall.

The jeweler welcomed the men into the living room of his one-bedroom suite. Jeffrey Carboni was a tall, good-looking man with dark blond hair, blue eyes and a light complexion. Looking younger than his thirty-five years, he had a striking appearance suggesting health and vitality. He was similar in size to Neal Caffrey.

Madison Avenue's idea of rugged attractiveness, Peter noted.

Neal observed the garden-themed room with outdoor terrace. A soft palette of blues and greens complimented the hardwood floor throughout the living area. There was a large wood burning fireplace and a curated library. Through the open door to the bedroom, he noticed floral pattern 18th-century wallpaper with definite Chinese influence. Very nice.

Carboni waved them to several chairs. "Please take a seat, gentlemen. I know you're very busy and your time is valuable. I don't want to waste it. Agent Burke, I've been thinking about our phone conversation. You want, Mr. Caffrey here, to pose as myself, in a sting operation to catch these jewel thieves committing a crime?"

 _Straight to the point_ , Burke thought.

The jeweler continued. "Why don't you just use me? I assure you, I'm not easily frightened by menacing hoodlums; I'm licensed to carry a weapon and I can take care of myself. It would make it all less complicated."

Neal blinked in surprise. Peter straightened in his chair.

"We don't risk the lives of ordinary civilians, Mr. Carboni. I appreciate your offer. But our people are trained for undercover operations. Neal is quite experienced in confidence games and executes an operation with precision and skill. He can entice these men into committing a crime, producing the evidence we need for an arrest."

"I'll safeguard the gems. Your merchandise will be secure," Neal assured him.

Carboni flushed slightly. "I'm not doubting your expertise." He hid his irritation but couldn't keep a touch of disappointment from his voice. "I just wanted to help take these men down. The fact they're targeting the jewel trade, have stolen millions and hurt my own tradesmen, infuriates me."

Peter nodded. "Of course, and I assure you we'll need your assistance."

"How can I help?"

Neal grinned. He pulled out a sheet of paper and passed it to the jeweler. "These are the items I need and the questions I need answered."

Carboni slipped on a pair of reading glasses, scanned the sheet and glanced up at the two men.

"I believe I can be of help, gentlemen."


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: This wraps up my story. I hope you enjoyed it. Big thank you to all who read, fav'd, followed and commented on the chapters. My gratitude goes to Catherine Schlein, my beta and to Sharon and Ellie for their advice during the writing of this fic.

I'm busy working on developing auxiliary chapters for Tigeress79's awesome story,"Animula." She has kindly allowed me to use her AU world. /11291157/1/Animula

Chapter 6

On Saturday evening, Jeffrey Carboni was scheduled to attend a private gem display at the business of one of his affluent clients. The showing would be comprised of merchandise from several local dealers and his own stock, including a stunning green Kashmir peridot from Pakistan and a rare Uruguayan amethyst.

Fairly confident the location would appeal to the tight-knit theft ring, the White Collar office set plans in motion. A surveillance van was established in the area, Neal would arrive late as the decoy, fitted with concealed microphone, and Peter would be attending the function as a guest.

In the van, Agents Jones and Berrigan were to monitor outside activities in a small parking lot several hundred yards from the business. Other agents were stationed up and down the street.

Most of the guests had already arrived when Neal finally pulled up in Carboni's rented sports car. Parking behind the building in a small alleyway, he hopped out slowly, carrying an aluminum attaché case in one hand. Wearing a dark fedora, and light overcoat, his silhouette mirrored the merchant.

"Here we go," he whispered softly. "I don't …"

Within seconds of uttering his first words, he was violently shoved to the ground by several men. He looked up and saw a pistol pointed at him.

"Don't move," said one scruffy individual as he yanked the case from Neal's fingers.

Hiding his surge of anger, Neal tried to appease his assailants.

"Hey … you don't have to point a gun at me. I'll do whatever you say." He sat up slowly raising his hands in a non-threatening motion.

 _Come on, Peter_. _Now's a good time to show_ , he thought. Times like these were moments he wished he didn't abhor firearms.

"Let's go," commanded a smaller man, standing back in the shadows. "And be sure to slow him down; give him something to remember us by."

Neal scrambled to his feet. "Wait a−"

A blur of moment.

Something solid and heavy hit him across the back. He fell forward as his body exploded with pain.

"FBI! FBI! Throw down your weapons." Voices echoed across the parking area. "Hands up where I can see them."

Rolling to one side, Neal stared up and around. There was a melee of bodies in action. Some fleeing; others in hot pursuit. He managed to sit up, blinking in dazed confusion.

His arm was grabbed by someone stepping directly behind him. Yanked to the left, Neal started to tumble backward when he felt a strong arm cushion his fall.

"You okay? Neal, are you hurt?"

Neal relaxed when he heard that voice. Even on one knee, Peter Burke seemed to tower above him. The agent slowly released his firm grip and stood up, using his body as a shield. Standing protectively over him, a Glock raised menacingly at the assailants in the throes of being apprehended by numerous agents, Peter sporadically glanced down searching for signs of injury.

"I'm okay. Just sore," Neal groaned, as Peter lowered his weapon, helping him to his feet. "What happened?"

Peter edged closer. "I'm sorry, Neal," he said softly, his brow deeply furrowed. "Seems your mic stopped working the moment you pulled into the parking lot. You got jumped before we could react. It took everyone a few minutes to arrive on scene."

"Is Caffrey all right?" asked Jones, approaching the two men.

"I can speak for myself, Jones. I'm right here and, aside from some major bruises forming, I'm okay." Neal's movements were sluggish and awkward.

"I'll get Diana to drive you to the hospital. You need to be checked out," ordered Peter.

Rubbing his sore back, Neal shook his head. "No hospital. I got knocked down; that's all. Fill me in. Did we get them all? And who was the shadow man in the back, giving orders to the rest?"

Diana stepped over to join them. "You just happened to meet, Raul Diaz," she said. "I had the pleasure of cuffing him, Caffrey. He has an interesting scar on his right wrist. By the way, he wasn't happy with my procedure."

She smiled.

Neal took her at her word. Diana could be painfully forceful when the situation required it. His team, he liked that sound, protected their own.

"Come on, Neal", said Peter. "I'll drive you back to the office and we'll start the paperwork. One of the agents will return Carboni's car."

Neal sighed with dramatic exasperation and nodded. "Right. My anklet's off."

"Yeah," Peter paused and smiled. "Need to keep an eye on you." He placed a possessive hand on Neal's shoulder and motioned him forward. The two men walked off, comfortably side by side.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Before heading back home to Charleston, Jeffrey Carboni stopped off at the Manhattan field office. He was overjoyed to find all the people he wanted to thank. Clustered in the bullpen area were Burke, Caffrey, Jones and Diana, all huddled over the computer monitor on Neal's desk. They looked up and smiled as he pushed through the glass entry doors.

"I'm delighted to see you in one spot," he said. "Makes my job much easier." As they looked at him in a quizzical manner, he stepped closer to the group. "Before I leave New York, I wanted to be sure and personally thank y'all. The prosecutor's office got in touch with me; they mentioned some of the arrests and charges being filed, here and in Virginia." His glanced briefly at each individual. "You took down the Martinez Gang."

"Not quite," clarified the head agent. "This has been a combined long-term operation involving several federal and state agencies. Virginia ATF, U.S. Immigration, local police and others have long been investigating this ring. Cases like these are multi-jurisdictional," Peter explained. "We just added a nail to the coffin."

"Oh … I think you're downplaying the crucial role your office played."

"I agree," declared Neal, flashing his trademark grin, definitely enjoying this conversation. "Peter is just being his usual self-effacing self."

Nodding agreeably, the jeweler turned to Peter. "You shouldn't be so modest, Agent Burke," he stated.

Glancing at each other, Jones and Diana unsuccessfully hid their amused grins.

"And you, Mr. Caffrey, the star of the show, saved me from serious injury and the loss of a few exquisite gems. As much as I wanted to be a part of your sting operation, in retrospect, it would have been foolhardy. I tried to offer you a reward, but Agent Burke told me it's prohibited."

Neal couldn't hide his momentary surprise, although Peter suspected he wanted to. His handler's gaze focused on him, lips quirking in a crooked grin.

"Tell me," continued Carboni. "Did Martinez, himself put up much of a fight?"

"No, we picked him up a block down in the get-away car no less. He's remaining silent, on advice of counsel," Peter went on. "But a few of his group are eager to strike a deal. They've talked and implicated the inner circle, including Martinez and his lieutenant, Diaz, on armed robbery and assault. It's only a matter of time before we have enough evidence to indict them all."

The salesman glanced at his watch. "I'd better be heading out. Thank you, once again." He quickly shook hands and turned around to leave. Feeling an odd mingling of regret that he hadn't played a bigger part in the take-down and was heading back to his old routine, Jeffrey Carboni made his way out to the hallway elevators.

Neal sighed in frustation. "A reward, Peter? Really? What'd he offer?"

Burke regarded his CI for a long moment, delighted at the opportunity to annoy him.

"Maybe you shouldn't tell Caffrey," said Diana with a grin, as she and Jones walked away.

Sitting down on the corner of Neal's desk, Peter looked up. Casually picking a piece of lint off his pants leg, he spoke slowly. "I've been thinking about the discussion we had back at The Palace Hotel's horticultural exhibit─where you accused me of not having a romantic bone in my body. Well, I'll have you know, El differs with you. She's thrilled with the Moonflower fragrance I surprised her with."

He leaned back and quoted from memory, "It begins with a heady aroma of white flower and lime blossom with hint of spice, and develops into a lady-like floral scent of sheer elegant jasmine and melon."

Peter picked up a case file and began to read avidly. Very deliberately, he began to turn the pages, reading it slowly and silently.

Returning to his desk, Neal sank down in his seat, picking up an apple he was saving for lunch. He took a bite and chewed slowly, fixing his partner with a level stare. "Cruelty doesn't suit you, Peter."

After a few moments, Peter put down the folder. "I'm glad you recognize that." The agent leaned closer and whispered, "Carboni wanted you to visit his showroom in Charleston and have you pick out a small piece of merchandise."

"As in small gem?"

"That's about it."

"Does the FBI have a symposium, once a year, in South Carolina?"

"No."

"Joint Task Force meeting?"

"No."

"Rare news conference?"

Peter shook his head.

"Upcoming terrorist training? Crime Statistics confabulation? Boy Scout roundtable?"

"Neal! You know you can't accept a reward."

Peter stood up and headed for his office; Neal at his heels.

"What kind of gem? How small?"

Bounding up the stairs, the agent refused to answer.

"If Elizabeth likes perfume, I know the best place to shop! We can visit Donna Karan New York. Peter, they unveiled the world's most expensive perfume! Listen, there's a depiction on the bottle of the Manhattan skyline in diamonds!"

Peter waved the CI to back off. Neal refused, dogging his steps all the way.


End file.
